CATHARINE COOPER:High and not dry

What do phone lines, propane and water have in common?

Not much, unless you happen to be without any of them, are in a foreign country, and challenged by the provision of services.

So it was, in the days following Hurricane John’s tromp through southern Baja, that I found myself in Loreto, armed with a task list of clean-up items.

John had pushed water through the roof and turned my flower gardens into refuse piles. Hurricane-driven flotsam and jetsam covered the beaches, arroyos and lagoons. Trees from high mountain passes floated eerily in river-mouth shallows. Giant uprooted cardon knocked against the shoreline, bloated, rubbery and filled with saltwater.

We were luckier than some, who lost their homes completely, or suffered water damage to the eaves. Broom, shovel, clippers and copious loads to the dump cleared most of the mess. Ceiling plaster and paint remain on the do-list.

Everything worked, except the phone. Each time I picked up the receiver, I heard a Spanish recording that informed me that I hadn’t paid my bill. But I had.

Three weeks earlier I had handed payment to my friend and Loreto resident, Alexander, who had, he confirmed, made the payment.

However, he was at that moment in Thailand, which precluded access to the paid receipt.

The phone company’s office is located in Ciudad Constitucion, a solid 1.5-hour drive to the south -- before the roads had been washed out by the hurricane. It was rumored that on Fridays, payment could be made at a storefront, but today was Monday.

Val, who’d been by earlier to tell me my phone was disconnected, suddenly returned with Luis, who she’d seen driving down the street.

Luis works for the phone company. He picked up the receiver and said, “You didn’t pay your bill.”

We gave Luis pesos for the bill, which mysteriously, he was able to pay (again). He returned with a receipt, the phone lines on, and a change of address with the post office for my bill. Would your phone person do the same?

Steve heads for the shower while I wash dishes. Suddenly, the water goes off. We go out and check the pila (water tank) in front and sure enough, it’s empty. We turn off the electric pump and look at each other, thinking, “Unpaid water bill?”

In town, we find that the water company is closed. Across the street we see a man reading electric meters. He confirms that the water company is closed for the day, but says that he saw four guys digging a water line five blocks over.

Sure enough, knee deep in a trench are water workers who listen carefully to our story. They tell us they’ll call their boss, but their cell phones have no minutes.

Steve passes some pesos and asks can’t two of them come now? Sure enough, they jump in the truck and follow us to the house. They look in the pila. Yep. It’s empty. One sticks a long metal thread into the pipe and “whoosh” — he’s blasted by a stream of thick muddy water.

The water pipe, which had broken when the hurricane flooded the arroyo, must have filled with mud, which stuck at our house. A couple of beers later, we’ve got water and they’re back in the trenches.

Only now, we don’t have propane, which means we can’t cook and the water we just got won’t be hot. The cell number for the propane delivery rings with a fast busy, and at this point, I’m not sure what that means. I dial Val, who suggests we go and look for the propane truck on the street, which is what she does when she’s empty.

We decide to combine dinner with our propane search, since I can’t cook anyway. Sure enough, we find the propane man outside Mediterraneo where we have a fabulous meal. He follows us to house, only to inform us that he has tiny tanks and can’t help us.

We need the truck with the big tank. He assures us someone will come by in the morning. Just as we’re settling in, a horn honks outside, and -- yep -- propane tank. He fills the tank, we pay him -- and pass another beer.

One aspect of this cultural adventure seems to be not only who you know, but where you can find them. I wouldn’t change a thing.